


Happily Ever Afters

by samchandler1986



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: AU, F/M, Future, post show
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2018-12-31 17:18:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12137328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: What the GLOW crew did next...





	1. Chapter 1

Gun smoke drifts across the sand, cordite smell in the air. The horse snorts and stamps, metal clinking as the gunslinger dismounts. Spurs twinkle in the dust as they stalk towards the fallen body. Hat pulled low, face masked. Silver pistol cocked, in hand—

“And cut!” calls Justine, looking up from her camera eyepiece. A bell rings, and the bustle of the set between takes returns. The body of the dead bandit sits up and wipes his sweating face.

The gunslinger pulls down her mask to reveal the toothpaste-advert grin of Debbie Eagan. “Hey,” she says, heading over to the bank of screens and cameras that demarcates the line between Western fantasy and film-set reality. “So, what do you think?”

Ruth is wide-eyed. “Honestly?” she says, blinking in awe. “It’s perfect.”

* * *

The house on the hill looks almost exactly as she remembers it.

She shuts the car door quietly, following Justine and Debbie towards the porch. The grass on the front lawn is more manicured than her first visit and someone has hung hummingbird feeders from the window. The front door opens and her stomach clenches, not unpleasantly, nostalgia carried on the sweet smell of floor polish.

“Sam?” calls Justine.

He’s in the kitchen, attending to an enormous paella. There’s something strange about seeing him in such a domestic role, prodding at rice with a spatula. The same scowling intensity he used to bring to choreographing a fight. “Hey kids,” he says, turning to welcome them.

Brown eyes find blue. Her mouth twitches at the corners, eternally optimistic she can crack his frown. “Hey, Sam,” she says. It comes out squeakier than she intends.

“Hello, Judas,” he replies, folding his arms. “How’s New York?”

She smiles, letting out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. He’s still an open book, thank God. “Fine, thanks.”

“Mmm. So, what brings you back out West?”

She knows he knows; Justine has told him. “An audition.”

“Oh, I see. Real drama didn’t work out the way you thought, huh—?”

“Jesus Christ, Sam,” cuts in Debbie, somewhere between amused and exasperated. “Can you just… not? Honestly, you’re more actress-y than the actresses.” She moves to take a plate full of paella and a seat at the table.

“Help yourself,” he huffs, shaking his head.

The others follow suite and there is near silence for some minutes as they dig in, starving after a day on set. “This is really good,” says Justine thickly.

“Yeah, I know.” He is the only one picking at his rice, resisting the urge to pick a fight instead. “So, what’s the audition for, anyway?”

 “A TV show,” Ruth replies, smiling at Debbie’s rolled-eye exasperation with his thinly veiled curiosity. “Science fiction. Set on a space station in the far future…”

“Sounds terrible.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Justine tries, “how was the distributor meeting?”

“Also terrible.” He stabs a prawn with his fork. “Tell me it was better on set today.”

“It was better on set today,” they chorus in unison.

* * *

Her watch beeps midnight. She really should be trying to sleep. Instead, she’s watching the glow of the city in the sky and panicking. A flicker of light down in the garden catches her eye. Sam, lighting a cigarette. Unthinking she slips on her shoes and out to join him.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey,” he replies, calmer now after an evening of editing in his office. “Not sleepy?”

“Kinda nervous.”

“Don’t be.” He takes a drag. “You’ll kill it.”

“Ah, not sure about that.” She casts about for a change of subject. “It’s nice that you do this. Have dinner.”

“Well, normally there’s a few more of us, but Cherry’s filming in Toronto, Tamée’s out of town…”

“I picked a busy week.”

“Mmm.” He blows smoke skyward. “I think Justine does it to prove a point. I told her once that all jobs are a crap shoot. Losing touch is inevitable. The world just… moves on.”

Ruth smiles to herself. “It’s good for you, her living here.”

“Yeah, I know.” His moustache twitches. “Thanks for helping me pick it.”

“That was a weird day, right?”

“Weren’t they all?” He stubs out the cigarette. “Do you miss it?”

“What, GLOW? Yeah, of course. Every day.”

And if there is anything else loaded into that exchange, anything more personal, they ignore it in the silence.

“I thought you’d stay with Debbie,” he says, as they wander back towards the house. “You guys seem on pretty good terms these days.”

“Um, yeah.” She can’t quite find the words to articulate why she can’t accept the offers of a place to stay when they come. She wrecked Debbie’s home once; it feels somehow crass to come under the new roof she has made for her family. Like it will rake over the destruction of the old one, undo the years of bridgebuilding they have worked so hard on.

He puts on a pot of coffee in the kitchen. “Let’s see them then.”

“What?”

“The sides.”

“Ah, you don’t have to…” She stops. “Okay.”

She ghosts about the room while he reads, cataloguing the changes to the space from when they first arrived. Sam was tweaking, she remembers, strung out on coffee and cocaine. Self-medicating the stress of something going _right_ in his life for once, and about to drop money barely earned from their successful first season on some ridiculous neo-Gothic confection. She still isn’t quite sure how she managed to talk him into this sensible three-bedroom home instead.

“Which one are you reading for?” he says, bringing her back into the present.

“Uh, uh, my agent thinks the science officer.”

“ _Intelligent as she is beautiful_ ,” he reads, “ _Killian is fresh from the academy and unprepared for the everyday reality of life on the edge of the human frontier_. Huh.”

“What?”

“No, I guess I can see it.”

She puts her hands on her hips, frowning at him. “Which part doesn’t fit, huh?”

“No, it’s not that— Look, we know you can play a giant nerd with a hard-on for the rulebook convincingly. It’s not a stretch.”

“But…?”

He shrugs. “But so can a lot of people. What about the first officer role?”

“Terra?”

“Yeah – _a former commander of the Novak Resistance, damaged by years of bitter conflict. Terra struggles to find her place amongst the bright and hopeful Alliance citizens_.”

She blinks. “You think _I_ should play the haunted ex-terrorist role?”

“Yeah,” he says, “I mean, she’s a fish out of water; she doesn’t fit in. She’s brittle with loneliness, hiding it under her pride. Plus, they’re looking for an actress with fighting skills who wouldn’t mind wearing alien prosthetics.”

“They mean like, kung-fu or something. Not _wrestling_ skills.”

“So, prove them wrong! You sold stuff in the ring no one would believe just looking at you.”  

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“ _Fuck_.” She rubs her forehead. “I haven’t— I don’t even know the lines. I have to do this in like, eight hours from now. It’d be crazy to change my audition at this point. Wouldn’t it?” She takes in his face and swears again. “Give me some of that coffee.”

* * *

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

A long silence on the crackling line across the continent. She can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “Are you really going to make me ask?” he grouses.

“You were right.”

“Yeah, I know that. About what?”

“Terra was the better part for me.”

“So, it went well?”

“Yeah. It um… it looks like I might need a place to stay again in a few weeks. Screen tests. I mean, if-if that’s okay—” 

He laughs, a genuine chuckle of mirth and mingled affection. “Sure Ruth. That’ll be fine.”


	2. Chapter 2

The first time he sees her in make-up he bursts out laughing.

“Thanks,” she says drily. “That’s the effect we’re going for here.”

“No, I just… this is why science fiction television is ridiculous. That little…crinkle on your nose is supposed to somehow convey essential alien-ness. It’s ridiculous.”

“Right, because the special effects in your movies are all about realism?”

“Alright, alright. Are you going to show me around or what?”

“I dunno, are you going to take what we do seriously?”

He raises his hands in surrender. “Total seriousness. I promise.”

 “Hmm.” But she gives him the benefit of the doubt, and together they leave her trailer to tour the set. 

“Wow,” he says, all alien crinkles forgotten. “This is amazing.”

“I know, right?” She runs a hand along her console. “They’ve got a budget…”

“… that most _filmmakers_ can only dream of.” He sighs. “This is going to make _Hot Guns_ —”

“You can’t still seriously be calling it that?”

“What? It’s like a pun on—”

“I know, I’m not an idiot. It just… sounds ridiculous. What was wrong with _The Gunslinger_?”

“Ah, the studio doesn’t like it. They don’t think it ‘captures the essence of the project’.” He makes air quotation marks with his fingers, clearly pained.

“What… a film about a lone-ranger gun-slinging her way across the West to avenge her family’s murder? Huh.”

“Look, I’m doing what I can, alright? You know how tough it was to sell a relatively unknown female _director_ to them on a movie with no real male protagonist? I’ve already called in a lot of my favours.” 

“It won’t matter if you let them sell it as some kind of… softcore jerk-off western.”

“I know, I know! I’m dealing with it, okay? _Jesus_.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“No, I am. I’m sorry. You-you know what you’re doing.”

“Yeah,” he says, sadly. “I do.” He takes in the bridge of _Space Station Six_ and shakes his head. “Why I’m still doing it, on the other hand…”

She punches his shoulder lightly. “Don’t go all morose on me. Come on and meet some of the others.”

“Alright.” He rubs his arm pointedly, but follows her through to where the production team are assessing the dailies.

“These are our producers, Bob and Rick,” she says, making introductions quietly, “Guys, this is—”

“Holy fuck,” says Rick. “Sam Sylvia.” He pumps Sam’s hand enthusiastically. “I fucking love your movies, man.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Studied them in film school. Fucking _art_. My girlfriend loves ‘em too. Third date she made me watch _Gina The Machina_.”

“Right…” hazards Sam, “and you stuck with that, after the whole meat-grinder vagina thing? You’re a brave man.”

Rick explodes with laughter. “Right, right! I know, man. Did Ruth show you around the main set already?”

“Yeah, she—”

“Ah, cool. Cool. Hey, are you still making films?”

“Uh, yeah. Got one that we’re just wrapping at the moment. Kind of a twist on the great sixties western.”

“Oh, man. Can’t wait to see that. Well, if you get back in to the TV gig, you’ve got to let us know.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

Bob and Rick exchange a look. “We use guest directors from time to time,” says Bob. “After what you did with GLOW—what Ruth’s told us about the way you worked—we’d love to have you on board.” 

“Really?”

He gives Ruth a sidelong glance and she smiles, a little sadly. “Always happy to help,” she mutters, unheard.

* * *

 “Are you nervous?”

“I was going to ask you the same question.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I’m nervous. Premieres always make me nervous. I hate the red carpet. All that _who-are-you-wearing_ fawning crap. But you’re an actress. Isn’t this what you live for?”

She finished fixing her earring in the mirror over the mantelpiece. “How long have you known me, Sam?”

“Four years.”

“And outside of work, how often have you seen me wearing make-up? Or a dress?”

“Okay, okay, point taken. It’s all about the art for you. I get it.”

She turns on the spot, red dress unfurling, sequins flashing. “On that note, how do I look?”

He folds his arms. “As if you don’t know.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t hurt to hear it. Occasionally.”

An overly dramatic sigh. “You look fantastic. Can we _go_ now?”

She sweeps over and he swallows convulsively, but she’s only coming to fix his crooked bow-tie. “Very dapper,” she says, grinning like a shark at her small victory. She extends her arm. “Let’s go, then.”

* * *

Justine catches up with her in the dark auditorium of the cinema, away from the flashing cameras and shouting.

“Hey,” she says, impossibly beautiful in her tailored tuxedo, “thanks for doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Crisis-sitting Sam?”

They glance over to where the subject of their conversation is draining a shot of something at the bar and ordering his second. Perhaps more worrying, Debbie is doing the same.

“Um… Are they a bad influence on one another?”

“Only when they’re being competitively cynical.”

“Huh.” Ruth squares her shoulders. “It’s okay,” she says. “We’ve got this.”  

But she can’t shake the feeling of _inevitability_ when it comes to the twin tidal waves of Sam and Debbie. The torrent has to fall somewhere, the only choice is where it lands.

* * *

The bar is thronged, music blaring so loud every conversation is a shouting match. It’s hot, and everyone else is drunk. She should go home. Instead she’s sipping diet coke through a straw, watching Debbie hold court. Gracious and beguiling as ever, surrounded by tuxedoed idiots.

Once, a long time ago, Ruth might have been jealous. As it is she can see the _weariness_ under Debbie’s mask of charm. She knows, if she were to join the throng, Debbie would whisper in her ear: “I wish I was at home with Randy.” This is just a job. One she’s good at, but work nonetheless.

She can’t see Sam and that is more of a problem. The options range from just nipped outside for a cigarette to just slipped into cocaine induced psychosis. Tonight, her money is on the latter – something in the sloping lines of his shoulders when they left the theatre betrayed a deep misery, entirely at odds with current events.  

She finds him finishing a bottle of bourbon in the parking lot. “Ruth,” he says, voice a deep burr.

“Uh-huh. You okay?”

“I’m fine.” He finds her eyes and gives her one of his trademark sad smiles. “Just dealing with success in my usual way.”

“Yeah,” she says, voice tight. “Never did quite understand this part.”

“Oh, it’s ‘cos I’m a shitty person—”

“Don’t say that.”

“No, no. It’s true.” He takes a final swig, throws the bottle into the dark. “I’m really fuckin’ proud of you all… and really fuckin’ jealous.” He digs in his pockets for a cigarette packet long since discarded. “What kind of person does that make me?”

Ruth sighs, coming to sit next to him on the low wall. “A normal human one?”

“You don’t have to be _nice_ to me—”

“You’re right, I don’t.” She shrugs. “Look, we all feel like this sometimes. It just means it’s time to go before you make a bad decision.”

“Yeah,” he says eventually, “alright. You wanna share a ride?”

“Sure, Sam.” She glances back wistfully at the bar for a second, but it’s time to follow her own advice. “Let’s go home.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Ugh,” she moans, struggling under his weight. “Did you get _drunker_ somehow, in the cab?”

“Maybe,” he slurs, his arm slipping from around her neck as he almost pitches sideways into the flowerbed. “I finished the bourbon, right?”

She merely sighs, letting him find the floor while she digs out the front door key. “Come on.” Drags him back up by the scruff of neck. “You need to hang up that suit.”

“Yeah, I will,” he says faintly.

“Like hell you will,” she snarls, “but I’m telling you, the velvet will—”

“Ruth.” Fingers suddenly light on her wrist, eyes now boring into hers. “I will. Hang. The suit. I’m not a child.”

She swallows; her voice when it emerges tight with anger. “Could’ve fooled me.”

She helps him up the stairs anyway, into his bedroom. Not the first time she’s been in here. Mostly under similar conditions. It’s surprisingly tidy, barring the surface drift of science-fiction paperbacks. She deposits him on the mattress and he sags into the softness of it, putting his head into his hands.

“Fuck,” she hears, muffled by his fingers.

“Don’t.” Softening in spite of herself, she sits down next to him. “Just take the suit off, hang it up, and sleep this off. It’ll be better in the morning.” She risks a smile. “We both know it will.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“You need a hand with…?”

“Christ! _No._ I can fucking undress myself and find a coat hanger. Alright?”

“ _Alright_!”

“Ah, fuck.” His fingers brush hers, almost compulsively, thumb tracing the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t—I can’t—can’t find the right words right now.”

“I know.”

That sad smile again, mirror to hers. “Thanks,” he tries. “For everything.”

Not just tonight, he doesn’t have to say, but all the other times she’s pulled him back from the brink.

“You don’t owe me.”

Because when they get right down to it, he’s done the same, albeit under different circumstances. And she feels curiously at peace, eye to eye with him. Survivors of this war of their own making. Neither of them is ever comfortable in their own skin, but there’s a strange comfort to be had just in finding someone else on a similarly tortured path. They are not remotely alike. But maybe they’re _made_ of similar stuff; cast from the same brittle metal.

Her small hand is folded inside his larger one now. For a second his gaze dips to where they hold on to one another so tightly, and the words come out as a sudden rush. “Don’t go. Stay and talk—”

Gently but firmly she pulls her hand back. “Go to sleep, Sam.”

His shoulders slump. “Uh, yeah.” He clears his throat. “Goodnight.”  

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

She can hear him, as she undresses for bed, clattering about in his wardrobe. Worse than that, she can _feel_ him. All that anger and misery bleeding through the wall. It would be so easy to slip back in. To find one another in the dark and just hold on together. Not out of lust, no, but for _comfort_ —

Except she’s been there and done that: the decision still the worst of her life. The difference, she tells herself, between a one stupid choice and a bad habit is this. Lying on the cold sheets of the guest bed and bearing the ache in her chest for both of them. Come sunrise it will fade just like morning dew.

* * *

He fries bacon and brews fearsome black coffee for them all the next morning. Or technically the afternoon, by the time the ferociously hungover Justine has crawled out of bed.

And if they avoid one another’s gaze—one another’s touch as they’re passing out plates—well, neither of them is going to call attention to it.

Their almost indiscretion goes ignored until she is on the doorstep, leaving. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, as they briefly hug goodbye.

“Don’t be.” She squeezes him back just a little bit harder, to make the point. 

If Justine notices, she’s sensible enough to say nothing.

* * *

“Hey,” says the receiver in the voice of Sam.

“Oh, hey!”

“I, um, we haven’t talked in a little while—”

“Well, you know, we’ve both been so busy!” Far too chirpy.  “Um.”

“Yeah.” A long pause. “Ruth, are we… okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding emphatically, as if that could somehow be transmitted down the line. “Yeah, we’re okay.”

“Good. ‘Cos, um, Bob and Rick have called me a few times… asking if I’d like to come and direct. I don’t want to tread on your toes, and if things are—”

“Sam. Stop. We’re fine. Say yes! I’d enjoy working with you.”

“Huh,” he says, but there’s a note of amusement creeping into his voice. “Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“Never going to repeat it,” she riffs back lightly.

* * *

The thing is, she finds herself thinking weeks later: it’s true. Three years together on GLOW, feeling their way to making something quite unlike anything else on network television, she knows how he works. Knows when to raise a sceptical eyebrow and make him rethink a direction, knows the tone of his voice that brooks no disagreement. Bob and Rick are shrewd, picking her old friend for an episode heavy on her character’s emotional backstory. She rages and cries, kicks a man across the set, and knows it’s one of her best performances.

Until the day Marjorie comes to set.

* * *

 

“What the fuck is a mauve alert?” says Sam, as she trots past his trailer on the way to make up.

“Oh, shit. Really?”

“Not helpful! What does it _mean_?”

“It means Marjorie Stalls is visiting set.”

“Who?”

“She was married to the creator of the original series…”

“Oh, right. Still feels like she has creative control?”

“Well, technically she does. It’ll be fine. The episode's… great! One of the best. She’ll _love_ the direction you’ve take it.”

“You know, for such a good actress, you’re a terrible liar.”

She winces. “Just – try not to lose your temper? Okay?”

* * *

“What the hell is this bullshit?”

A ringing silence follows Marjorie’s pronouncement. “What do you mean?” quavers Ruth.

“Your character is _Teleptil_. It’s clearly established that their cultural code expressly forbids murder.”

Rick, sitting behind the bank of screens, licks his lips nervously. “Marjorie, we’ve discussed this before — the script demands…”

“Well, I'm sorry, but I think it’s a point that needs remaking,” the woman replies imperiously. “You told me the story justified this, but I don’t see—”

“Because you haven’t been here,” shrugs Sam, what thin patience he has evaporating. “Look, lady, with respect—”

“How _dare_ you talk over me like that! Who on _Earth_ do you think you are?”

There is a collective cringe at those words, Marjorie’s voice a whip. Everyone but Sam is looking away. “I’m the director,” he replies levelly, to Ruth’s surprise. “It’s my call. And it's my job to protect my actors from executive meddling. You don’t like what I’m doing? Fine. But talk to _me_ about it in private and don’t undermine a professional when she’s working. That’s basic courtesy.”

More silence. Two sets of narrowed eyes, boring into one another across the set. “I’ll see you when you’ve finished this scene, then, _Mister_ Sylvia.”

“My pleasure,” he snaps back. And there’s venom there, for sure, but overlaying a buzzing tension Ruth recognises as… something else. 

 _Oh, fuck,_ she thinks, as Marjorie sweeps away. For once she’d be happy to be proved wrong, but something in the way Sam glances back at the door suggests her radar is pinpoint accurate.  


	4. Chapter 4

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You busy?”

She curls the ‘phone cord around her thumb, a good idea already about where this conversation is going to go. “What’s up?” 

“Um.” The popping static of a bad line for a moment, as he gathers his courage. “I, er… I could do with some advice.”

She makes an invisible face. “Is this about Marjorie?” she says briskly.

Another pause. This is going to be like pulling teeth, she can tell. “How’d you know?”

“Because I’m not _blind_ , Sam.”

“What? Was it… was it obvious?”

She could lie, but what’s the point? “Uh, yeah. A little.”

“…Shit.”

“So, what do you need my help for?” Perhaps he deserves a little light teasing, she decides. “Are we in the asking stages, or the awkward third date stages, or … what?”

“Ah, Jesus. I _knew_ this was a bad idea—”

“No, you didn’t. And… it wasn’t. Spill.”

He groans. “Are you busy right now?”

She considers her options. “…No?”

“Will you just… could you come on over? Please?”

“Ah, Sam, I’m just about to make dinner—”

“I have food. I’ll—I’ll make you dinner. I just… This is really fucking awkward over the ‘phone.”

“Alright,” she sighs eventually. “I’ll head over. You owe me though.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

* * *

“So, what do you think?”

She kicks her bare feet, sitting on his bed as he holds up a third shirt and tie combo from his wardrobe. “Honestly?”

“Yes, honestly,” he snaps back. “What would be the point in having you here to lie to me?”

“Alright, alright.” She holds up her hands in surrender. “ _Honestly_ the style is a little dated. I think you should buy something new.”

He digests this, biting his thumbnail. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Shit. In what colour?”

“ _Jesus_ Sam,” she laughs, “who even _are_ you right now?”

“Don’t—don’t—”

“You really like her, huh?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” He sits down at his bureau, chin in hand like Rodin’s _Thinker_. “Look, I know a guy like me doesn’t really have a chance. But she’s smart and funny—”

“—age appropriate—”

“Sh-shut up. Yeah. I like her. Ok?”

“Better than ok. Good. Dating someone you actually like is… good.”

“…But?”

“Ah,” she sighs. “ _But_ you’re going to have to be yourself at some point. We can do the whole _My Fair Lady_ of dating thing, if that’s what you want. But you can’t build a relationship pretending to be someone you’re not.”

“I know _that_. I’m not looking for another ex-wife. I know there’s no happily-ever-after. Just, you know, a happy couple of weeks would be nice. A happy six months.”

Bleak as the sentiment is she finds herself laughing. “Yeah. That would be nice.” There is a long moment of silence. “Come on. You promised me dinner. Unless you’ve dragged me over here under false pretences?”

“No, no, I’ll make dinner.”

“Good. Chance to practice before the big date—”

“Ugh.” He stands. “I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”

“Probably not,” she says, following him downstairs.

* * *

It’s still early enough for morning dew to cling to every blade of grass in the park. She turns the corner, into the final lap of her morning run. Her and the pink dawn sky starting the day together. Just how she likes it.

She jogs on, towards home. Nods to a passing dog walker, another runner. A couple so engrossed in one another she’s not sure they even see her coming.

Only as she passes does she realise it’s Sam and Marjorie; a bolt of lightning that flashes from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. Sam doesn’t look like himself, grinning almost goofily. So focussed on his companion he doesn’t even see her.

She runs on, grinning faintly. _Good for him_ she thinks, but the feeling suddenly twists and catches in her chest.

If even Sam can find someone to make him so happy, what on Earth does that say about her?

* * *

The sound of a champagne cork popping causes a ragged cheer. The wrap party is in full swing; her colleagues drinking, dancing, and generally celebrating a job well done. She feels like the only pickled onion in the fruit salad, trying her best not to let the sadness show. Finishing their pilot season freights only fear; will audiences respond? Will they be renewed or not? Is she back on the audition treadmill or on the verge of stardom?

She sighs, trying to twitch that maudlin train of thought onto a different branch line. Staring out across the room her gaze snags on Sam. The queasy nervous feeling turns to lead in her stomach. He doesn’t see her, deep in conversation with Marjorie. It’s almost a relief. His recent calls, full of almost boyish anxiety over what Marjorie may or may not like, are becoming a source of dread.

It’s not jealousy, she tells herself. Not exactly. It’s _good_ he’s trying to be a better man, trying hard not to hit the self-destruct button at the first sight of a happy ending.

She’s just tired of waiting for her own. That’s all it is.

She glances back up, in time to to see him break a kiss, face creased in so tender a smile he’s a stranger. Her innards twist again; for no good reason at all.

* * *

It’s raining.

She steps out of the club into the mizzling shower, drunk enough for her brain to present her with this fact like it’s a revelation: rain. Sodium orange haze haloes the streetlamps, puddles reflecting the sullen glow of the city night sky, and she feels almost blissfully hollow. Beer buzz and the ache of hours of dancing in the balls of her feet replace the complex welter of fear and mingled envy—

There is someone lurking in the stairwell at the end of the street, smoking. Her pulse jumps in momentary fear, but even in the penumbra of the porch she recognises his profile.

“ _Sam_?”

“Hey.”

“What… what are you doing here? It’s two in the morning. You left hours ago.”

“Yeah… I um…”

“Oh, no.” The stranger from earlier has disappeared, replaced by the all too familiar Sam-in-a-crisis. “It’s late. Can this at least wait until morning? Whatever’s happened between you and Marjorie now, I’m _really_ not interested—”

“We broke up.”

“ _Fuck_.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Okay, look, we can—”

“No, it’s… it’s ok.”   

“Really?” Hand on her hip, expression one of deep, deep scepticism. “Because it looks to me like you’re trying to throw away what’s making you happy. Again.”

He smiles without humour, mouth framing some piece of self-deprecating sarcasm, and all her pity turns to anger.  

“No,” she hears herself snap, from a long way away, “shut up. I’m so _sick_ of this, Sam. Stop pissing away everything good in your life just because you—”  

“Ruth, stop.” He crosses to her, hands briefly clasping her shoulders, bringing them eye to eye. All she can think is that they’re well off-script now, travelling without direction.

“What _is_ this?”

“I’m trying not to be someone I’m not.”

“What?”

He scowls, considering his non-sequitur. “Okay, that sounded better in my head—”

“Sam! _What is going on_?"

“You really don’t know?”

“No!”

“Jesus _Christ_ , Ruth! You want me to just… say it right here on the street?”

“Say _what_?”

“I –fuck!” He stares at her, wild-eyed, jaw working back and forth. Wheels clicking into place. “You really don’t, do you? Fuck.” He sighs. “I don’t want to be with Marjorie, Ruth. Because I want to be with you.”

The sounds of the night time city fill the ringing silence following this pronouncement; the distant roar of the freeway, laughter from patrons leaving the club. Ruth is somewhere in the sky above, looking down on them both, mind flapping free of a frozen body.

She blinks, and finds herself in her own skin again, staring back at a thoroughly miserable Sam. “So, yeah,” he says, retreating back inside his carapace of antagonism, “this was… this was a bad idea. Forget I—”

“No, it’s…” She stops, considers. “I mean, maybe the timing is a little… off.”

“Really?” In spite of everything his moustache twitches, a tiny bit of dark humour escaping. “The _timing_ is what’s wrong here?”

“Well, yeah,” she smiles back. “I mean, it’s two in the morning. Nothing sensible ever happens at two in the morning.”

“Sensible?”

She wrings her hands. “I mean… everything always looks different in the cold light of day. Doesn’t it?”

He shakes his head, like they’re back in his office years ago, arguing over a wrestling match. “No. What is _wrong_ with you?”

“Nothing! I’m just not… crazy and emotional like most people.”

“I’m not emotional!”

“You waited out on the street for me all night to… to…tell me about your feelings.”

“That’s not emotional! It’s… it’s…” He gropes for a word.

“Emotional,” she supplies.

“So, what? If I’d have done this at two in the afternoon you’d have a different answer?”   

“… No.”

He swallows, suddenly unable to bear her gaze. “Okay. Okay. I’m sorry—”

“No,” she says again, holding up her hand, “that’s…. that’s not what I meant.”

“Jesus Christ. Do you have to make everything so complicated?”  

It’s her turn to sigh. “Maybe?”

“Okay. It’s okay.” He takes her hand. “I think that’s maybe why I like you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Come on.”

“Come… where?”

“Well, I think we’ve got about four hours until that cold light of day you mentioned. I know a good spot to watch the sunrise.”

* * *

“So, I don’t know. My agent thinks I should go, but Rick and Bob think it’s a bad idea, that we’re almost guaranteed a second series.”

“Mm.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“Fuck, I don’t know. I mean, I think the show’s solid. But you never know with the network.”

“Yeah. It’s complicated.”

“Well, what isn’t with you?”

She laughs. Her head is resting on his shoulder, sitting on the bonnet of his car parked in the overlook. It’s _almost_ romantic, although careful observation reveals the gravel is strewn with cigarette ends, and what looks distressingly like a used condom.

“What time is it?”

He makes a show of checking his watch. “Four thirty.”

There’s a definite glow on the horizon, suggesting somewhere behind the grey cloud the sun is at least thinking about rising. She shivers. “I don’t know about the light, but it’s certainly cold.”

“You want my jacket?”

She gives him a look. “Who even _are_ you right now?”

He huffs. “I can be nice.”

“Hmm.” She pulls his arm around her shoulders instead. “Sometimes.”

“The contrast, I think, makes people appreciate it more.”

“Ha.”

Minutes pass in comfortable silence. And she’d be lying if it didn’t feel good, but there’s still something she can’t shake, a sense this is a page torn from someone else’s life. A happy ending she’s stealing rather than one she’s earned.

“I get the feeling you’re overthinking something,” he says softly after a while. His moustache tickles her ear.

“Maybe.” She points to a glimmer of gold on the horizon, flashing through a break in the clouds. “Does that look like the sunrise to you?”

“Yeah, that’s the cold light of day creeping in.”

“What happens now?”

“Mm. I think that’s up to you.”

“Hah. Makes a change.”

“Ruth?”

She turns her head, forehead pressed against his for a long moment.

“Yes,” she says, and kisses him.


End file.
